Less

Zohra’s voice comes loudly from her camel: “Shut the fuck up! Enjoy the fucking sunset on your fucking camels! Jesus!”

headed in another speed streak

beat-up white BMW

Señor Less, Señor Banderbander.”

Klonopin, Lexapro, Ativan,” he coos. “But really I come down here for the Viagra.”

“Klonopin, Lexapro, Ativan,”

Harold Plum is dead.”
“There were changes to the list,” the Head admits.

Arturo turns to Less with the pained expression of one who has just broken something beloved of yours. “Señor Less, I am so sorry,” he begins. “I think you speak no Spanish, am I correct?”

Less understands: he has been assigned a poet.

“There follows, I am sad to say, a very long ride on a very slow road…to your final place of rest.”
He sighs, for he has spoken the truth for all men.